


Sweets For My Sweet

by theoddoodisnude



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Implied background relationships, M/M, Schmoop, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 03:15:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8187385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoddoodisnude/pseuds/theoddoodisnude
Summary: The kid clutches the candy bar to his chest and fans his face dramatically with the other hand, “And they say that romance is dead.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the schmoopiest au I've ever written. Inspiried by [this](http://an-exotic-writer.tumblr.com/post/145550544049/five-word-prompts) and based on the prompt, "Fight me, you attractive stranger". 
> 
> **Warnings:** Not beta:d, and with a very brief but undetailed dive into social anxiety.

It’s nine thirty PM on a Thursday. Normally Derek would be working now, but Isaac’s looking to work as much as possible this week so he can be lazy next week, so Derek gave him his shift.

(Isaac’s not actually going to be lazy; he’s just planning to not work, is the thing, and wants to treat his boyfriend and girlfriend to a polyamorous three-course dinner because it would be appropriate or whatever. And Derek didn’t so much give Isaac his shift, as was incessantly cajoled into it by Laura, who claimed that “he needs to not work every single night of the week _every week_ , oh my _god_ , Derek, you’re young and single, go out and get laid”).

So Derek’s not working. He could go out, but he doesn’t particularly see the point of going to any bar except the one he works at, but that would, in Laura’s words, “defeat the whole purpose of having a night off to begin with, Derek, don’t even think about it”. He could also catch up on all the shows he’s fallen behind on and get around to reading that book Cora got one of her supposed “nerd associates” to lend him, but two and a half episodes of _Mr Robot_ and three chapters into the book later, he’s too restless to lounge around on the couch any longer.

He tries tidying up, but he honestly doesn’t spend enough consecutive hours awake in his apartment for it to get too messy in the first place. He briefly ponders working out, but Laura would somehow _know_ that he spent his night off working out instead of doing... whatever people do when they have time off. She’d _know_ and the potential, impending rant is enough of an incentive for Derek to decide not to.

He sighs. Maybe he should do his groceries now, get it out of the way. He hasn’t gone grocery shopping this late in years; his work hours dictate that it’s more convenient to do his groceries before noon, in the company of housewives and the elderly.

Derek can practically hear Laura despairing in his head. She’d probably say something like, “you’re _twenty-six_ , Derek, not _seventy-six_ ” and, “you can’t be contemplating your grocery habits on your night off, _get a life_ ”.

Maybe Derek should get a dog. A dog is arguably a life; it implies an investment in something other than his job, so it would most likely at least temporarily stop Laura complaining. But on the other hand, there’s no way he has time for a dog, with the hours he keeps.

(Maybe Laura’s onto something, with the working-too-much-thing, but Derek would sooner drink a shot of arak out of a well-worn trainer than admit it).

Derek wipes a hand over his face, grabs his keys and the organic tote bag Isaac got him for his birthday – “You’re very environmentally conscious, Derek,” Isaac had said, generously, to which Cora had less-generously added, “We all know you’re a secret hipster, an organic tote will help you come out to the rest of the world too,” which Laura had very gratifyingly elbowed her in the ribs for – and heads out. He can do, like, half of the shopping now, and the other half some other time. It’ll just make him half as boring, and Laura will have half as much to complain about.

The store’s just down the street and Derek makes it there in minutes. He makes his rounds down the different aisles and contemplates how unsanitary the basket he’s holding must be, which leads him to thinking about the spooky-white-shirt-themed evening they’d had a while back, and how the obligatory black lights they’d had to install for the occasion revealed some suspicious stains on the bar no one wanted to acknowledge, let alone touch. They need a new detergent, he could make a few calls tomorrow, see what—

Derek feels like he should worry about how his inner Laura is almost as vocal as the real one, because even as he considers the properties of different detergents and who he can get in touch with to get a hand on some heavier stuff, his inner Laura interrupts him with, “Derek, you need to stop thinking about _detergents_ for the _bar_ on your _night off_ —get a _life_ ,” which is pretty much verbatim what she’d say if she was here. Perhaps more lovingly than his inner Laura did, though.

Derek sighs and frowns at the potatoes. They’ve done nothing wrong, of course, except being pretty uninspiring as far as potatoes go; he sighs again, settles for visiting the farmer’s market come Sunday morning, and forges on.

The store’s pretty deserted – there are some teenagers hovering in the soda aisle, a couple of tired-looking suits straggling around; a bored employee is stacking soup cans into a perilous, vaguely Eiffel tower-shaped construction. It’s actually much calmer than it usually is, with the housewives and elderly, so maybe this not-working holds some unknown merits Derek hadn’t considered.

As he looks down at the paltry contents of his basket – which consists mainly dairy of and frozen products; he’ll buy the rest at the farmer’s market – Derek gets the unusual and spontaneous urge to _splurge_. Maybe he’ll get some _chocolate_ , and see who’s incapable of doing things on the fly tomorrow, _Laura_.

(Derek very decidedly doesn’t think too much about how sad his life must seem, when buying chocolate to himself on his first night off in more weeks than he cares to count – but that would definitely require more than one hand – is a great feat of spontaneity he almost sees fit to brag about).

He’s pretty blind to the world as he saunters over to the confectionary aisle, imagining what kind of chocolate he’ll buy—Maltesers? Kit Kat? Anything Reese’s? As he nears, though, he realises that there’s only one kind of chocolate for him tonight: Snickers. There’s even only one bar left, as if it was _meant_ for him, and as Derek reaches out and grabs it—

Another hand slinks forward, fast as lightning, and tries to _snatch it away_.

Derek immediately pulls the last Snickers bar close to his chest and raises his eyes to glare at whoever tried to steal his biannual off-the-shopping-list buy.

It turns out to be a skinny kid who’s almost as tall as Derek, but not quite. His hair is doing some messy _coif_ thing, and even in the crappy fluorescent store lights, Derek can tell that there are tiny little _specks_ of something like gold in his brown eyes, and birthmarks dot his face like _constellations_. It’s pretty terrible. And then the kid has the audacity to _grin_ , a crooked, shot-through-the-heart affair, and ask, “Exactly how much are you craving that Snickers right now?”

Derek masks his surprise with a glower and pointedly keeps the Snickers close to his chest, “It’s already mine,” which is, perhaps, not his finest work, but he did take it first.

“Not until you’ve paid for it,” the kid points out. He looks quite tired, now that Derek’s looking; there are dark bags under his eyes – but his apparent exhaustion does nothing to deter him. He lifts his hands and keeps them in front of his body in loose fists, and offers Derek another crooked half-grin, which is the devastating part, really. “Fight me, you attractive stranger.”

Derek raises an eyebrow, “Over a candy bar?”

“I’ve been fantasising about Snickers all day, man,” the kid explains, one foot in front of the other, and rocks slightly back and forth, like he’s in a fighting video game. “The nougat with caramel and peanut filling, covered in chocolate—it’s the only thing that got me through half of my classes today, I swear. I _need_ it.”

Derek doesn’t snort, but manages to make a sound that sounds like a cousin of a snort, a soft, short huff of air that is wryly amused. He tosses the candy bar over to the kid, and tries very hard to keep the corners of his mouth down, where they ought to be, as the kid lunges for the bar and then juggles it around with flailing limbs, before he finally catches it.

When the kid looks back up at him, his eyes are wide and bright, like Derek’s a revelation. He clears his distracting throat, “You sure?”

“You can have it,” Derek promises with a nod.

The kid clutches the candy bar to his chest and fans his face dramatically with the other hand, “And they say that romance is dead.”

That’s a pretty good opening. That’s a great way to keep the conversation flowing. It’d be easy to pick up here, flirt a bit. For anyone who _isn’t Derek_.

See, this is why he doesn’t do socialising—he’s so _bad at it_. Doing it at the bar is fine, it’s easy, because it’s easier to bullshit when he has a _purpose_ ; people ask for something, and he gives it to them, whether it be drinks or nachos or an ear to talk at. He doesn’t have to do much and if he has to smalltalk, the bar itself is always the perfect topic. This, here? Not impossible, but difficult. Like climbing a mountain with just one hand when everyone else is using two, like skydiving with holes in his parachute.

This is why he works and works and works. Alone is easier than this.

But the kid doesn’t let the conversation die; he drops his hand and takes a deep breath and keeps grinning. He’s not perfect, because he flails for a bit and opens his mouth twice before he manages words, but he’s close.

“Seriously, dude,” the kid says when he finds the words. “Thank you. I don’t know if I’d be able to bear the crushing weight of disappointment if I didn’t get a Snickers after the day I’ve had. You’re a life-saver, man. Please let me help you navigate this chocolate-y wonderland and find you something else as recompense.”

Derek raises an eyebrow again, because he’s feeling particularly eloquent tonight, and makes some assenting noise. The kid beams, which is awful, and then steps closer, so they’re almost standing shoulder-to-shoulder, which is even worse. Even from the corner of his eye, Derek can see that the kid’s eyelashes go on for miles.

Then the kid opens his mouth and starts a tirade about each and every piece of chocolate in front of them, its merits and drawbacks and apparent ocean of flavour. Derek manages to make a couple of noises and inquiries, and when the kid exclaims, “Dude, stop glaring at the Bounty, what has it ever done to you?” he answers, “ _Coconut,_ ” with a vehemence that makes the kid laugh. It’s a nice laugh, too. Horrible.

Ultimately, Derek settles for a small bag of Reese’s Pieces, and by some unsaid, unanimous decision, they shuffle over to the checkout, still shoulder-to-shoulder. The kid keeps the conversation going, even briefly involves the cashier, and then suddenly they’re standing right outside the store. Derek finds he’s not quite ready to go home.

“So, uh,” the kid clears his throat and kicks one foot into the ground in a way that makes Derek think, hopefully, that maybe he’s not the only one who’s reluctant to leave. “I realise my recompense was pretty shitty. I mean, I mostly just bullied you into choosing Reese’s Pieces and then I didn’t even pay for them, so, uh. I was wondering if maybe you’d be interested in another sort of recompense?”

Derek’s mind goes straight to the gutter and writhes on the ground for a good three seconds, before he manages to wrench it up and out of there. His voice doesn’t even sound that strained as he licks his lips and asks, “Like what?”

The way the kid’s eyes definitely flicker to his mouth for a hundredth of a second is pretty gratifying. Derek has to fight to keep the corners of his mouth down again, but maybe he lets slip, a little.

“I was thinking, uh, coffee?” the kid says, and his eyes dart away nervously. “If you want? I usually have classes all afternoon, but not every day, so maybe at like, eleven? Some day? I mean, if you want, you don’t have to—“

“Yeah,” Derek finds his voice just before he starts doing something stupid, like nod so enthusiastically his organic tote falls off of his shoulder, or his heart flies out of his chest.

The kid beams again, which is just as awful this time. It makes his entire face light up.

“Great! Then I could give you my number, and you can, um, get in touch about when it works for you?” the kid chatters on, reaching for Derek’s phone the second Derek fishes it out of his pocket. He does wait for the moment it takes Derek to unlock it, but snatches it out of Derek’s hand as soon as it’s unlocked.

The screen casts a light on his face that makes shadows of his endless eyelashes. It’s so distracting that it takes Derek a couple of beats to catch up with the fact that the kid’s opened his mouth again.

“I’m Stiles, by the way,” he grins as he hands the phone back. Their fingertips touch. It’s stupid. Derek can hardly tear his eyes away from it.

“Derek,” he replies, only it comes for way lower in his chest than intended, so he sort of rumbles it.

Stiles, luckily, only crooked-grins wider, “Nice to meet you, Derek.”

Stiles sticks his hand out, so Derek takes is and shakes it; Stiles has a solid, warm handshake. Their hands linger as they stare at each other, but miraculously, it’s not half as awkward as it should be.

In the end, Derek pulls his hand back first, and Stiles’ palm slips out of his slowly.

“Talk to you soon,” Derek dredges up from somewhere. He’s willing to bet that the starlight reflected in Stiles’ eyes is part of some elaborate joke.

“Yeah,” Stiles takes half a step back, and his grin very impressively softens into a smile, before it stretches right back into a grin again. “Yeah, uh. Soon. Talk to you soon, Derek.”

Stiles takes another step back, then another; he turns around and starts walking in the opposite direction of where Derek’s going. He throws a glance over his shoulder and waves. Derek waves back and then has to force his hand down and will his feet to start the trek up the street. He’s wearing the dumbest grin the entire way home.


End file.
